Blind love
by SunnySidesofBlue
Summary: Breakdown hates being watched. The other Stunticons are getting tired of his paranoia and offer him a distraction in the shape of a young Autobot prisoner, a prisoner who conveniently enough was rendered blind during last battle... Sticky slash, non/dubcon.


**A/N: **_Here's a oneshot I wrote for the kinkmeme over at LJ a few months ago. It's G1(ish) and contains graphic slash of the borderline non-con/dub-con variety. If you're not cool with that, please stop reading here._

_Just for the record: I know that Breakdown should technically be much younger than Blue (at least according to G1 Cartoon, which is more or less my only canon point of reference), but for the sake of this story let's suppose the opposite. I imagine Blue as a very young adult and the Stunticons as some undefined age of mature adulthood._

_Disclaimer: I do not in any way claim to own the Transformers_

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"If I hear that fragger say 'stop looking at me' one more time I swear I'm gonna deactivate him. Permanently!"

Motormaster vented a tired gush of air as his dark grey subordinate stormed out of the common room. He knew it was an empty threat – not even Wildrider was crazy enough to actually kill one of his own gestalt mates – but the black semi wholeheartedly seconded the feeling behind the statement. Breakdown's paranoia was annoying at best, but these last weeks had been worse than ever. The blue and white mech had even gone as far as refusing to interface with his team members unless they kept their optics shuttered. Not that such a demand would mean anything if push came to shove, but Motormaster really didn't need any more tension within his team, thank you very much.

"What was that about?" muttered Dead End, who had just narrowly avoided being run down in the doorway.

"Breakdown," Motormaster answered, not needing to explain any further.

"If that mech doesn't learn to wind down a bit now and then he's gonna get us all deactivated," the red Stunticon grumbled as he flung himself down in the first available seat, nodding in greeting at Drag Strip who was polishing his guns at the other table.

"Yeah, tell me about it," the yellow mech said. "He almost shot me yesterday. Problem is he spends all his time worrying. Fragger needs a hobby."

Dead End looked at his team mate with doubt in his optics, obviously trying to wrap his processor around the combination _Breakdown+hobby_ and failing.

"Come on,' Strip," Motormaster said irritably, "Breakdown's in love with his fragging paranoia. No matter what we figure out he'll find a way of convincing himself there's some hidden threat in it."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Dead End agreed and Drag Strip merely grunted and shrugged his shoulders.

The three mechs sat in silence for a while, mulling over the problem.

"Hey, I've got an idea," Drag Strip suddenly said with some enthusiasm. "Why don't we give him that little Autobrat in the brig to play around with? He can't possibly feel threatened by him."

Motormaster wondered for a nano-klik if Wildrider's position as the nutcase of the team was threatened by the yellow sports car.

"Are you crazy?" he said. "Do you seriously suggest we put _Breakdown_ in the same room as an enemy sharpshooter, and a Praxian at that, and expect him not to go into hysterics? With those damned sensory panels the 'Bot could be headless and Breakdown would still feel observed."

"But that's the beauty of it!" Drag Strip argued. "Under normal circumstances this bot would be a real threat, I'm not denying that. But didn't you hear Hook's report? That little glitch was too close when the refinery blew up and the explosion took out his optics _and_ shredded his door wings. He's as blind as they come. And Hook said it's irreversible, at least the optics."

The black semi stared at his subordinate and then gave a rare smile.

"You know, Drag Strip, you're not always as stupid as you look."

Bluestreak was terrified. No, that was too mild a word. He was panicking, and the feeling was so intense that it all but forced him offline. He was alone, all alone, darkness and silence his only companions. He hated them both with every circuit in his frame. They brought him back to the orn when he had lost everything. The fall of Praxus. All his friends and his family had been killed, while he himself had been "lucky" to be merely trapped under a collapsed wall.

Once the echo of the bombings and the screaming of dying mechs and femmes had faded he had spent eight orns lying pinned among the debris in total darkness and silence before an Autobot rescue team had finally found and saved him.

He had repaid them as best he could by joining them, even though he'd technically been too young to enlist, and then proceeded to specializing when it was discovered that he had a talent for sharpshooting. He had never liked fighting but at least he didn't feel completely useless as long as he knew he could make some difference in the war against those who had destroyed his home and his life.

Now that was gone, too. Of all his senses sight was the most important and without it he was completely useless as a soldier. And what more was there to him than a soldier? Everything else he might have been had been left behind in the ruins of Praxus.

Suddenly he heard a sound coming from the cell door and tried to press even further into the corner where he had been sitting curled up into a miserable little ball ever since the Decepticon medic had finished with him and, in an act of cruelty or possibly misguided concern, informed him that he was irrevocably blind. The few sensors that remained in his battered door wings protested wildly as they were squeezed against the wall, but Bluestreak was far too frightened to pay any attention to them.

The cell door hissed open and someone entered his cell, but instead of approaching the visitor stayed just inside the door. As the seconds passed and no further sounds were heard, Bluestreak's fear sprung to new levels and suddenly something within him just burst.

"Who… who's there?" he squeaked, his vocalizer hitching and voice trembling. "Please don't hurt me, please, I'm so scared and I can't see and all my sensors are down and I hate darkness and I don't even know why you are keeping me here but I'm frightened and the silence is so awful down here, what are you going to do to me, please, oh please Primus, say something!"

The young Autobot's tirade broke up into hysterical sobbing as he hugged his knees even tighter and buried his face in his arms.

Breakdown looked down at the shaking, keening figure and felt a small surge of sympathy. He knew that feeling so well, someone watching you and you didn't know who, from where or why. Since this mech was a sniper by profession Breakdown had always felt nervous about him, but it was strangely soothing to see him so terrified, knowing he would never be able to pose a threat again.

He took a few steps closer. He wasn't quite sure what his intentions had been in coming down here, but he felt strangely attracted by this blind young Autobot. In his view the handsome face and nicely shaped frame were rendered even more appealing by the blackened optics and the shredded remains of his sensory panels.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said and gently put his hand on the other mech's shoulder.

Even though he'd heard the steps Bluestreak started at the sound of a voice so close to him and tensed up even further when he felt the light touch on his shoulder. Therefore it took a few moments for the other mech's words to register in his processor.

"You're… you're not?" he said, trying to control his ragged intakes.

"No, I'm not. I know how you feel."

Bluestreak very much doubted that, but after the hours of pitch black silence, bad memories mixed with all the horrible things his vivid imagination had suggested could happen to him in his defenceless state it was such a relief to hear a friendly voice that tears actually started to stream down his cheeks.

"There, there, come here," the Stunticon said and carefully but firmly dragged the gunner out of the corner and into his own arms.

The young Autobot gave in to the pull with some reluctance. No matter how friendly the words, he didn't feel comfortable at all being held like this by a Decepticon, one he still wasn't even quite sure who he was, but he was scared to death of being left alone in blind silence again and chose the lesser of two evils.

He wasn't surprised when the other pulled him to his pedes and began leading him out of the cell. In spite of himself, he clung closer to his unknown companion. No matter how bad he had found his cell, at least it had been a distinct and limited area where he could have managed moving on his own if he had wanted to. Out in the open like this he had no idea where he was and no idea of where he was going. What if his guide just abandoned him? How long would it be before he ran into one of the more bad-natured Decepticons, like Vortex, Astrotrain or maybe even Megatron himself. And what would happen then?

The mere thought had him tightening the grip, clinging on to Breakdown like a limpet.

The Stunticon felt a strong surge of satisfaction as he felt how the younger bot clung to him. It was nice to have someone so utterly dependant on you. He already felt a lot less tense than usual, leading the shaking prisoner from the brig to his quarters. Normally someone would probably have protested about the manoeuvre, but this particular prisoner was so obviously not going to escape unaided, so if someone noticed him being taken away they made no fuss about it.

Finally the two bots reached Breakdown's quarters. The blue and white mech quickly locked the doors and recoded them, making sure that no one could come in unless he himself opened the door. Then he turned back to the grey, chevroned mech who stood still as a statue where the Stunticon had left him.

"Now we are safe, no one can enter here unless I let them," Bluestreak heard the other mech say. It was probably meant to be a comforting remark, but to the blind youngling it seemed more like some kind of doom.

_No one will ever find me,_ he thought, on the edge of despair. He wasn't sure if his friends and fellow Autobots even knew he was alive or if they thought he had been incinerated by the explosion. He hugged himself tightly and began sinking to his knees when two strong but not rough hands caught him, pulled him back up and led him a few steps to the left. There he was encouraged to sit down.

Bluestreak searched the area with his hands and soon realised he was sitting on the edge of a berth. When the implications of this discovery registered in his processor he began shivering again.

Breakdown did not miss the sudden stiffness, nor the shivering of his companion. Of course the bot was nervous – after all, he would be too if he had gone suddenly blind - but he would help him relax.

He let his hand run down the younger mech's back in an unmistakable caress.

"Relax, you're safe, I told you I'm not going to hurt you," the Stunticon said in a soothing tone as his hands kept moving over the beautiful grey frame, tracing transformation seams, fingers dipping lightly into armour gaps. Then he gently but firmly pushed the other mech down onto his back.

A new wave of desperation hit Bluestreak as the unseen hands mildly forced him to lay down. Seconds later he felt the weight of another frame settling on top of him and had to fight himself not to scream and flail wildly. He did not want this, did not want any kind of intimacy with an enemy, but if this was the price he had to pay for not being left alone in that cell again… he would pay, not gladly, not by any stretch of the word, but he would not put up a fight.

While the young Praxian tried to force himself to relax Breakdown kept exploring the frame beneath him, hands wandering restlessly, sometimes digging, sometimes ghosting. Within a minute he put his mouth to work, too, kissing and nibbling his way from the insignia on his berthmate's chest plates to the cables and tubing of his neck and then on to the firm line of the jaw to finally reach the slightly parted lips.

A strange, half-choked mewl escaped Bluestreak's vocaliser when he felt a pair of warm lips being pressed against his own and a glossa stealing its way into his mouth, exploring just as eagerly as the hands that kept fondling his frame. Without his sight his sense of touch seemed to have intensified tenfold and no matter how much he hated the other's ministrations he couldn't deny that they were beginning to affect him. His cooling systems had had to step up a notch already, as had his internal fans. His intakes worked at an elevated rate, too, and much against his will his vocaliser kept producing a whole series of moans and mewls in response to the skilful tactile stimulation.

"Mmmmm, you taste good," Breakdown whispered as he finally broke the kiss. He stared right into his partner's unseeing optics and felt his engine rev hard at the thought that he could look as much as he pleased and the other would never stare back at him, would never be annoyed at him because of his fear of being watched, during interface or otherwise.

Bluestreak mentally winced as the sound of the other bot's racing engine was followed by the distinctive click of an interface cover retracting. Once again he had to struggle with himself not to panic as the weight on top of him shifted and hands began tracing the edges of his own panel. The contrasting signals from his frame and processor were driving him insane. His frame wanted him to arch into the touch, welcome it, to retract his panel and allow the other to claim him, satisfy him. His processor wanted him to scream _stop it, stop it, stop it, I don't want this, please for the sake of Primus, STOP!_

He did neither of those things. Instead he remained completely immobile, withdrew as far as possible into himself and tried to pretend it was one of his friends or previous lovers who was gently trying to heat him up for a nice, consensual interface.

It worked for all of 1.43 kliks, which was how long it took Breakdown to coax the lower part of Blue's interface cover open.

The Stunticon paused briefly, relishing the exquisite sight of the young Autobot's bared valve. He probed the rim carefully with one finger, making sure that it was properly lubricated, then resumed his earlier position face to face with the blinded bot's darkened optics. Then he gently eased the tip of his spike into the inviting, slick heat between the former sniper's legs.

He went slowly, pushing in inch by inch until he was fully seated. He took a moment to simply immerse himself in the feeling of the tight valve so deliciously squeezing his hard member before shifting positions slightly and pulling out just as gently as he had entered. Then he set a steady pace, thrusting slowly but deeply, determined to reach every sensor node in his partner's valve.

Bluestreak couldn't quite hold back his tears as he felt the foreign thickness invade him, his heightened senses quickly tearing down the carefully constructed fantasy of being with a lover of his own choosing. This mech was far too quiet to pass for Jazz, smelled completely wrong for Mirage, didn't have Sunstreaker's dominating moves or Sideswipe's way of grinding sensuously against him, teasing and fulfilling at the same time. It was completely unfamiliar and oh so _wrong!_.

And yet his frame begged for more. He tried desperately not to feel, to ignore the wonderful friction against his sensor nodes, but it was impossible. The mech above him moaned with each thrust, the sound reverberating in Bluestreak's mind and sending unwanted signals straight down to his valve, making it tighten itself around the invader in a ripple of pleasure.

Breakdown gasped as he felt the sudden tightening of the slick channel. Pushing the young mech's legs further apart he tried to reach even deeper, the building need in him making him increase the pace and the force of his thrusts.

The extra stimuli proved too much for the emotionally torn Autobot. With a hoarse cry of equal parts ecstasy and shame Bluestreak overloaded, his entire sensory net suddenly set aflame as waves of pleasure shot through him. Sobbing through his release he felt the normally wonderful but in this case sickening feeling of transfluid bursting from the spike inside him, coating the walls of his still convulsing valve as the other mech overloaded inside him.

_No… no…_ he whimpered, so quietly he could barely hear his own voice.

Breakdown rode the waves of his overload in a haze of bliss he hadn't experienced in a long time. He almost never relaxed, and certainly not if there was even one pair of potentially spying optics, which meant he was usually taut as a drum even during interfacing. Even if his partner had agreed to his demands of keeping his optics shuttered Breakdown could never trust that completely, and the eternal worry that maybe,_ maybe_ the very next moment optics would be staring at him again had made sure that he could never truly give himself up to the throes of passion.

But with this bot, bereft of sight and so conveniently placed within his reach, he could. And what a rush it had been!

After a while it dawned upon him that he still lay sprawled over the now faintly trembling frame of his temporary berthmate. With a contented sigh he lifted himself off the young Praxian, withdrew his waning spike from the wonderful warmth and retracted it behind its panel. Then he bent over and kissed those beautiful, quivering lips once more.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "You were wonderful."

Bluestreak felt as if he was on the verge of processor meltdown. This mech he still didn't know the identity of had essentially raped him, and now he was thanking him for it! Didn't he realise what he had done? The young mech pushed the question away. It didn't matter. After all, how could he accuse the mech of forcing him when he had neither protested of fought him off?

A quiet klik later he felt a hand stroking his cheek and heard the other's voice again.

"Do you want to go back to your cell?"

The words were probably meant to be kind, considerate, but to the broken young Autobot it sounded more like a death threat.

"No," he whispered, feeling horribly ashamed that he was such a coward, that he'd rather stay in a Decepticon's berth than facing his inner demons. "Please, don't leave me alone. Please…"

Breakdown smiled, an expression so unusual for him that his faceplates felt strange, and closed his arms possessively around the trembling Praxian.

"No need to worry, I'll keep you right here."

END

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**A/N**: Please let me know what you think!


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